[Exeunt.
(SCENE 2.)
Enter Cornego, Baltazar.
Cor. The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe to you by me.
Bal. So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now?
Cor. The King's Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, 'tis no coarse.
Bal. What's here? a letter minc'd into five morsels? What was she doing when thou camest from her?
Cor. At the pricke-song[208].
Bal. So methinks, for here's nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi. What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?
Cor. No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad.